


Obviously We're Terrible At This

by sageness



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Polyamory, Shakespeare, Theatre, Yuletide, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoffrey and Ellen scamper off down the alley, but then things go very differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obviously We're Terrible At This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rexluscus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/gifts).



> Special thanks to Petra for helping make this story happen and for demanding a better ending. <3
> 
> Rexluscus asked for an Oliver/Geoffrey/Ellen story in which Geoffrey did not go screaming into the night during that fateful Hamlet. I hope this fits the bill. Happy Yuletide! :D

 

I.

Oliver lay on the narrow concrete ledge in the alley, listening to the echoes of Geoffrey and Ellen's drunken declarations and laughter fade as they rounded the corner to the side street. Then he let out a frustrated groan and heaved himself up. Ellen was right, blast her. They had to tell him, or else they had to agree never to tell him, only Ellen clearly believed that they had to tell him—for whatever confounded reason. Regardless, the longer it went on, the harder it would be to make things right again with Geoffrey afterward. And, well, in vino veritas, as they said.

"Geoffrey, wait," he yelled from the mouth of the alley, only to find them dry-humping against the front window of a tiny florist's shop. 

"Oliver," Ellen said happily. She tugged her skirt down and took Geoffrey's hand. Oliver read the hope on her face, the impatience.

"Didn't I say you weren't invited?" Geoffrey called to Oliver, laughing over the insult, and tried to tug Ellen onward. She didn't budge.

Oliver took a moment to check up and down the dimly lit street, but short of the avenue the proverbial stage was bare. "We might as well do it here," he said to Ellen.

"Really?" she said, and then, "Thank you, Oliver."

"I have no idea what you two are talking about." Geoffrey's tone was put-upon, as if the entire world revolved around him. As if he were halfway still in character as Hamlet and he thought Oliver was standing in as Claudius. It was less than auspicious, but he had to make the attempt. 

"Geoffrey. Look at me." Oliver tried to let his face show everything, and never mind the jaundiced glow of the streetlights. He felt much like poor Mercutio laying his heart at the feet of his beloved Romeo, despite knowing full-well that Romeo would inevitably kick him aside in pursuit of the next week's fateful moonlit nymph. 

Geoffrey's eyes strayed to Ellen. "Do you think he's playing charades?"

"Oh, you clueless ass!" Oliver thwapped Geoffrey on the shoulder and stalked away. "No one can be this obtuse!"

"He really can." Ellen's face creased in frustration. "Maybe something more obvious?" 

"What?" Geoffrey turned between them.

"It doesn't get much more obvious, darling." Oliver sighed, exasperated, and moved in. 

Geoffrey said, "Ellen, wh—" and Oliver stepped close and planted a hard kiss on his open mouth. 

It wasn't a bad kiss as unanticipated kisses went, but shock was never a good reaction to romantic declarations, was it? Geoffrey was blinking in confusion. Oliver held his gaze and said, "Ellen and I slept together," and quickly back-stepped out of reach. "She wanted you to know, and better to tell you now than let it get blown all out of proportion."

"You what?" Geoffrey stumbled backwards, mouth agape.

"Sorry. Sorry." Ellen moved into Geoffrey's space, began petting his biceps. "That's why I wanted to clear the air, so you would understand what Ol—"

"Ellen!" Geoffrey scrubbed his face and turned, staring up and down the empty street with its darkened storefronts and doorways. "Fuck. How could you do this to me?"

Ellen's face twisted. "Geoff, it's _Oliver_!"

"But—" 

She gestured broadly in Oliver's direction. "Did you not notice who just kissed you? Or _why_ he kissed you?"

Geoffrey sat down hard on the curb, something unintelligible trailing from his mouth. Then he bellowed, "Fucking Christ!"

"Well, that clears up any lingering doubts as to that question, doesn't it?" Oliver said bitterly. "Thank you, Ellen."

"Oh, hush," she snapped. Crouching, she poked Geoffrey in the chest. "You know perfectly well that Oliver has been desperately—"

"Christ, Ellen, don't make me sound more pathetic than I am!" Oliver said, appalled.

" _Desperately_ ," she repeated, with emphasis, "in love with you for years. Since before you and I ever met, and you completely ignored it."

"But he slept with _you_ ," he replied in a plaintive tone that Oliver found almost sickening.

"And why on earth would he do that, do you think?" Ellen folded her arms, holding his gaze for a long moment, but Geoffrey only blinked up at her, stubbornly blank. She gave him a longer moment, but he still didn't respond. "Oh, now you're intentionally missing the point," she said with a glare and stomped off into the street.

"Am not!" Geoffrey said feebly. Then, "Well, maybe...." And eventually, "Fine! Sorry if I don't know what to say!" The words trailed off pathetically, even as Geoffrey turned his head to include Oliver.

Oliver took a breath. He let it out. Ellen was staring at him from the middle of the empty street, waiting for her cue, apparently. And she had done her best, Oliver supposed, given the circumstances. "Right," he began. "Well, as it's abundantly clear that you don't return the sentiment, I'll just—" 

"What sentiment?" Geoffrey yelled.

"Geoffrey!" Ellen cried.

"Oh please." Geoffrey lumbered unsteadily to his feet, enunciating carefully, "Oliver is the least sentimental person we know! All he wants is to get in my pants. Whatever else he's convinced you is going on? All lies. This is no different from him trying to seduce the apprentices every—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Oliver snapped, but his words apparently had less effect than Ellen's deadly stare. 

"Is this the booze talking, Geoff, or are you really this cruel? Did I just completely fail to notice what an asshole you are?"

"No, Jesus!" Geoffrey let out a gust of breath and tromped a short distance up the street. "Fuck!" he shouted into the night, loud enough for Oliver to consider the apartments the next block over. Police interruption would not improve matters.

Leaving the street, Ellen exchanged a long look with Oliver and propped herself against the storefront display window to wait. Neither she nor Oliver said anything. 

It was several minutes before Geoffrey returned. He dipped his head formally as he said, "Sorry," to Ellen. Then he directed another, "Sorry," to Oliver's shoes. It was a long breath before Geoffrey met his eyes and said, "I'm a jackass. You caught me by surprise and...I'm a jerk. I apologize."

Oliver pursed his lips, unimpressed by the performance. "Not your finest moment, no."

"No," Geoffrey agreed.

Oliver continued, suddenly weary to his bones of the entire mess, "Look, you don't love me. You do love Ellen." He gave a resigned shrug. "The truth of my unrequited affection is out, so to speak, and we need never speak of it again." He glanced up the street toward the avenue; there was probably still a taxi or two waiting outside the bar.

"Oliver," Ellen said, taking his arm. "You don't have to say it like that. You're hardly persona non grata."

"Sorry," he said, "It's no fun for anyone when I get maudlin. I'll see you tomorrow evening for the show." Before he could move, Ellen had him wrapped in a tight embrace. Then she smacked a chaste kiss against his lips, deliberate and daring, and a clear reminder that she was, herself, nothing like Ophelia. She was neither innocent nor naïve, and she was Oliver's friend at least as much as she was Geoffrey's lover. 

She held his gaze. Then she darted a glance toward Geoffrey that Oliver couldn't help but follow. Geoffrey stood watching them in silence, leaning heavily now against a No Parking sign. His vibrant, post-Hamlet high had vanished, and he seemed almost helpless, hapless, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. 

Ellen sighed and hugged Oliver again. He kissed her hair once, then her cheek. Her gaze turned questioning, and he nodded once. Then he marched over to Geoffrey and planted a brief but firm kiss on his cheek as well. "Tomorrow," Oliver told him, and went to find a cab.

Behind him, he heard Geoffrey's, "What the hell was that?" and Ellen's quieter, "That was our friend saying goodnight."

A long moment later, Geoffrey cried, "I don't understand what just happened!" 

As he reached the corner, Oliver barely heard Ellen say, "I know, Geoff, I know. Let's go home." It took a herculean effort, but Oliver didn't look back.

  


* * *

  


II.

The second night of Hamlet dragged a little in the first half, although Geoffrey's hesitation in Hamlet's adoration of Ophelia fell fully within the bounds of 'pretended madness'. Oliver did not follow them to the bar afterward.

The day after, Oliver was still reeling from a conference call with the Board demanding that Darren Nichols' vampire Lysistrata be allowed to proceed, nudity included, when Geoffrey sank moodily into his visitor's chair. Oliver almost told him to go away...except that in the face of Darren's official connections, well, Oliver couldn't help but take some professional solace in the sight of his Hamlet. However rotten their personal relationship, Geoffrey remained his magnificent Hamlet.

"I wanted to apologize," Geoffrey said. "Sober, this time." He coughed, and then shyly met Oliver's eyes. "We've been playing this game for a long time." He waved a hand between them. "You flirting, me ignoring it."

Oliver took a deep breath. "Are you apologizing for ignoring me or for what you said?"

"I'm sorry for implying you didn't have feelings," Geoffrey said in a rush. "That was out of line, and I know it isn't true. I'm pretty sure we wouldn't fight nearly as much if that were the case." Geoffrey shoved his hands through his hair, then spread them helplessly. "Ellen's been going at me nonstop about how you and I are so much alike, just as invested, just as passionate."

Oliver tipped his head in assent. "She's observant."

Geoffrey shrugged. "I still don't understand how she doesn't feel like you took advantage of her, though," he said bitterly. "Sleeping with your director is the biggest cliché in the business, and you don't even like women! Any idiot can see you were only using her to get to me."

Oliver couldn't believe his ears for a moment, and then the laughter burbled up. It kept going in a long, lingering cackle, and all he could do was push his chair back, lean over, and wheeze until it stopped. "Oh, Geoffrey," he eventually gasped out. Geoffrey had no idea, bless him. No idea what Oliver felt for him, and certainly no idea what Ellen had offered to cause this mess.

"Are you going to tell me what all this was about then?" Geoffrey asked.

"Call it a favor between friends," Oliver said with a shrug. It was better than calling it a pity fuck, which wouldn't even be accurate, technically. "Ellen was trying to be kind, in her way. She isn't a romantic, after all."

"Dare I ask what exactly happened between you?" Geoffrey's brows were creased as if puzzling out a problem he really didn't like the answer to.

"You don't want to know."

"You don't want to tell me,"

Geoffrey countered.

"No. I have nothing to be ashamed of," Oliver said firmly. "I'm as prone to human desire as anyone, but I'm confident that you would prefer not to know the details."

Geoffrey sighed. "She did tell me that it was all about you. Whatever that means."

Oliver hummed noncommittally and let silence fall between them. Finally he said, "Was there anything else? Something concerning a play, perhaps?" The Festival season had only begun; there were half a dozen productions Geoffrey could raise questions about.

"No." Geoffrey stood up. Then he sat down. "Yes." 

"What?" Oliver said, probably failing to contain his glare.

"Don't yell. Ellen made me promise to say this," Geoffrey said, looking as irritated as Oliver felt.

"Of course she did. What is it?"

It came out like a freight train, low and rumbling. "She said I had to tell you that the three of us are still friends, and that of course I would still rather spend my days talking out plays with you than most other things I could be doing instead, and that you are still as welcome in the house as ever."

"Even if it kills you to say it?" Oliver said quietly.

Geoffrey grimaced for a moment; then it passed. "You, um, are family," he murmured and got to his feet.

Oliver coughed. "Tell Ellen I said thank you. Also," he added as Geoffrey crossed to the door, "fair warning: your ex's vampire Lysistrata is on again, after all."

"God dammit," Geoffrey said, fisting a hand in his coat for a moment before it flew out again, gesturing wildly. "All right, first, please stop calling him that. He and I have loathed each other for far, far longer than we were ever together. Second, you can't let him keep the licking in. Twenty actors putting their tongues all over each other every night—it isn't sanitary!"

"No, of course not," Oliver answered soothingly, even as he couldn't take his eyes from Geoffrey's irate face. Oliver was, in truth, exasperated with the entire issue, but also he couldn't deny himself the childish thrill of pushing Geoffrey's buttons. "I'll have a word with Darren tomorrow. If nothing else, it's a Health and Safety violation, and we can't have that. On the other hand, I suppose he could still have you mime it."

"Mime...Jesus Christ. Why won't he just go back to Europe?" Geoffrey's tone was verging into a wail as he moved toward the door. "Why does the Board put up with his garbage?"

"Because spectacle sells tickets, of course." It was a well-worn argument—a comfortable argument, even—and yet it was still far too soon. "I'll see you tonight." Oliver dismissed him with a wave, and Geoffrey vanished out the door in a swirl of black overcoat, probably off to bother Anna or May. A few minutes later, Oliver was almost tempted to call him back in, as he tried to remember which part of next season's Henriad he was supposed to be working on. Geoffrey had more thoughts about Falstaff than Oliver could stand to listen to, frankly, but the stubborn wall of Geoffrey's opinion never ceased to clarify Oliver's own vision.

He tossed Darren's now-tattered Lysistrata production proposal onto the credenza, laid out his copious Henry IV notes across his blotter, and sighed. Tonight Ellen would want to know if he and Geoffrey had resolved things yet, and there was no telling what she might do if he said no. Or if she asked Geoffrey and he said no. 

She might tell Geoffrey all the gory details. Worse, she might offer to let him, again. As a favor, or to call his bluff.

Before, it had been a moment of weakness on his part. She had positively reeked of sex with Geoffrey, and she had caught Oliver's full-body shudder as he'd smelled him on her. It _had_ been a favor between friends in its way, in that she had allowed Oliver to partake after the fact. He'd gotten off thinking of Geoffrey, talking about Geoffrey, tasting Geoffrey on and in her. She almost certainly hadn't gotten any pleasure out of it, though, and realistically there was no reason to think she would instigate an encore performance.

"Unrequited," Oliver found himself jotting on a blank page in his notebook. Because his friends who weren't Ellen didn't tend to fuck their friends. Principal actors didn't fuck directors who had been in desperate, hopeless, pointless love with them for an improbable number of years. "Unrequited," he underlined sternly. He was too old and too jaded for these kinds of feelings, anyway. He could and would be satisfied with the friendship they gave him.

Of course, Geoffrey had also said, "Family," and there hadn't been a lie in his eyes. The three of them were; they had built that together over the past years of constant companionship. 

It was no one's fault that Ellen had offered him the forbidden fruit, as it were. It was a kindness and he had taken it. Never mind the consequences.

Because he and Ellen were fools in love, and Geoffrey had merely been honest.

  


* * *

  


III.

Hamlet closed, with great acclaim, ten weeks later. Lysistrata was in its second blood-smeared week, and disturbingly few of the reviews had mentioned the casting of a nineteen-year-old First Nations girl as Reconciliation, although several had at least noticed the English and French accents of the Athenian and Spartan ambassadors who bit (and bit, and bit) her. Darren had, in the end, cut the orgiastic licking without fuss, and, in truth, Oliver thought it was a surprisingly effective show—if one ignored the gratuitous bare breasts and copious red Karo syrup.

He didn't share this opinion with Geoffrey, although he and Ellen privately had a wonderful discussion on Darren's portrayal of male dependency on women's bodies. It just wasn't one they could have with Geoffrey present. Conveniently, Geoffrey was busy starting rehearsals for a particularly swashbuckling Pericles, while Ellen was preparing for a turn as Elvira in Blithe Spirit. 

Life went on, in other words, as it tended to. Ellen demanded Oliver join them for dinner at Yong's on evenings when there was no time to go home between the end of the day's rehearsal of one play and the performance of another. On Sundays, Ellen insisted that the three of them have post-matinée dinner at her house, no matter how amateurish their adventures in cookery. Oliver had an old standby recipe for baked chicken, at least, and Geoffrey believed, correctly or not, that anything in the world could be turned into stir-fry. Ellen tended to give them an option between Kraft Dinner and ordering in from New Burbage's meager selection of takeout joints, at which point Geoffrey and Oliver put her in charge of the salad while figuring out the finer points of meat and potatoes themselves.

In hindsight, Oliver knew it had been a ploy on her part, but he was hardly complaining. He and Geoffrey now had two marinades between them, three identifiable cuts of meat, and a handful of actual non-soggy, non-flavorless vegetables. It was almost as if they were responsible adults.

It was a superb redirection from all the awkwardness Hamlet had brought forth, Oliver thought. That was something.

Geoffrey poked at the old VCR and then sat down on the couch next to Oliver. "I heard a rumor that someone was going to be releasing old RSC stage films on DVD...assuming they can get the funding."

"I hope it's soon," Oliver said. "I don't know how much longer these old tapes will last."

"Couldn't they just put them on the internet?" Ellen asked. "I mean, they're essentially historical archives now. It isn't as if people would line up to rent them from Blockbuster, unfortunately."

"Point," Oliver said, refilling their drinks. 

Laurence Olivier was as captivating as ever, although Oliver would have paid a significant amount of money for film reels of his or Gielgud's early, pre-BBC, stage work. Even if the staging were as two-dimensional and boring as the old reviews and production notes described, their faces—their voices—the sheer charisma of their performances—would be worth any price.

Two hours later, Geoffrey was asleep in an undignified sprawl that engulfed more than half the couch. Geoffrey had one arm wrapped octopus-style around Oliver's leg and clung fiercely to Oliver's hand with the other. Ellen was curled in her favorite armchair, laughing softly. "Don't you say it," he whispered.

"That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs," she answered, grinning.

Oliver suspected he was pouting. He was trying to figure out whether this was funny yet, or if it was still too soon. He sighed and aimed big eyes at Ellen. "He didn't even _ask_ if he could lie in my lap."

She snorted, and then covered her mouth. "You could try swapping in a pillow," she said quietly, "but he'll probably wake up. He usually does."

"You'd think he'd notice he had the wrong one of us." Oliver gave up resisting petting Geoffrey's hair. How on earth was he supposed to not touch?

"Country matters, indeed." She turned back to the film, still stifling laughter. That left him mentally rewinding what he'd just said and what she hadn't, while Geoffrey snuffled against his thigh. It was remarkably less tortuous a position, he realized, than it would have been a few months earlier. That was probably to Ellen's credit, what with her nefarious plan to remind them all they were friends. 

When the credits rolled, Ellen yawned enormously and stood. She had an early scene workshop in the morning, Oliver knew, and yet this...setup seemed improbably graceless. Also, deliberate. "Ellen," he murmured.

"Bedtime for me." Her voice was low, intimate. In a moment, she had a knee braced on the coffee table and was kissing Oliver softly and relatively chastely on the lips. "Geoffrey," she said, this time at regular volume. Her fingers stroked his face, and his fingers grasped Oliver's hand hard as he woke. The hand wrapped around Oliver's thigh clenched once, but didn't let go. 

"Hi," Ellen said, bending down. Her face was entirely too near Oliver's lap for comfort, and he was absolutely sure she had done it on purpose as he watched them kiss. On his thighs.

"Hi," Geoffrey said sleepily. "Sorry I drifted off."

"You've seen it before," she said. "I have to be up early, so I'm going to bed. Goodnight, and stay as late as you want," she said to Oliver. Then she pecked both their cheeks and went upstairs.

Geoffrey was sitting up by the time they'd called their goodnights after her, and his face was pink enough that Oliver swallowed back the "I should go" that was on the tip of his tongue. Ellen had just told him to stay as long as he liked, after all. It wasn't as if Geoffrey could very well throw him out.

"Sorry," Geoffrey said, waving vaguely at Oliver's lap.

"It's nothing," Oliver said. Geoffrey didn't answer and still didn't answer, so Oliver gathered their glasses and took them to the kitchen to rinse. Geoffrey didn't follow him, but neither had Geoffrey moved once Oliver returned. "Are you all right?" Oliver hazarded to ask.

Geoffrey shrugged. Then he patted the couch, inviting Oliver to resume his seat. Oliver did, and Geoffrey drew his feet up onto the coffee table, bumped his shoulder companionably against Oliver's, and took his hand experimentally. Literally. Geoffrey took the measure of Oliver's left hand against his own, he stroked their fingers and palms together, and he traced the backs of each of Oliver's fingers. If it hadn't been so clinical, it might have been flirtatious. Then Geoffrey kissed his fingertips.

"Stop," Oliver whispered, but he couldn't quite bring himself to pull his hand free. The shape of Geoffrey's mouth against his skin was killing him. He took a deep breath, wondering how much Geoffrey had needed to steel himself simply to hold Oliver's hand while awake.

Geoffrey glanced up and swallowed. "I, um. I've been talking to Ellen about some stuff."

Oliver smiled thinly. "I can imagine. She likes to meddle."

"She wants you to be happy." It wasn't flippant was the thing. Geoffrey's eyes were downcast again. One foot was tapping nervously. In no way was Geoffrey brazening anything out here...unless Ellen had stage-managed and possibly rehearsed all of this with him earlier. It was certainly within the realm of possibility for Ellen, but for Geoffrey? No, Oliver couldn't believe it.

"I appreciate the thought, believe me." Oliver pulled his hand out of Geoffrey's grasp, pulled away entirely. "But this isn't—"

"Oliver," Geoffrey interrupted.

"No," Oliver said firmly. "I know that if you wanted to, you could kiss me like Cary Grant falling in love for the first time, but it just so happens I'm not interested in what you can do. What I care about is what you _want_ to do."

"This _is_ —"

"It isn't," Oliver said, standing. "You can sleep on me convincingly enough, but that only means you've grown comfortable with me as a friend again, or else you have an extremely high tolerance for lumpy furniture. Don't insult either of us by pretending otherwise." He took Geoffrey's hand, squeezed it once, and went to collect his coat and scarf from their hook in the entryway. He could get out of here without any more heartbreak if he did it fast.

"You won't even listen to me!," Geoffrey said as Oliver wound his scarf around his neck. "You don't have any idea what I want."

"Do I need to actually say, 'Neither do you?' " Oliver ignored the hurt in Geoffrey's eyes. "I'll see you at some point tomorrow, I'm sure," he said, and left.

  


* * *

  


IV.

Oliver declined lunch with Ellen, instead preferring to schmooze the guest director they had in from Montreal. It was, perhaps, unfair, as Geoffrey was stuck in a stage combat rehearsal that would inevitably order in pizza for lunch, but Oliver did not want to discuss it, much less face the inevitable argument. Ellen couldn't understand; she thought any sex was sex worth having, mostly because her heart didn't enter into it until much, much later.

Unfortunately, Oliver returned from lunch to the sight of Geoffrey camped out at his desk, poring over his sketches for Henry IV Part One. "You're in my chair," Oliver said after a moment.

Geoffrey stood, a piece of paper in hand. "You aren't really considering Brian for Falstaff, are you? Tell me that isn't actually your cast list." Geoffrey jabbed a finger at what was indeed Oliver's cast list, and Oliver let out a great sigh.

"I see you disapprove," Oliver said, hanging up his coat.

Geoffrey snorted. "He would make the most dour Falstaff the Festival has ever seen. What are you thinking?"

"He has the age, the size, and, remarkably enough, Geoffrey, the ability to _act_ ," Oliver snapped. It was true Brian would be far better suited to Henry IV, but he was in no kind of shape to fight the Douglas in battle and they couldn't have him keeling over from a heart attack on stage, could they?

"There's not a jovial bone in his body," Geoffrey said as Oliver took possession of his own chair and took stock of the mess Geoffrey had made. It wasn't that bad, in truth, but the fact was Geoffrey was here. He was here and he was the last person Oliver wanted to see.

"You should go," Oliver said. "I have work to do."

"I have some ideas," Geoffrey said, shaking his sheet of paper.

"I don't care," Oliver answered tiredly. The third drink at lunch probably hadn't been such a good idea. Not with Geoffrey standing before him, all eager and vibrant and beautiful. Not given last night.

A moment passed, and then Geoffrey said, "All this shutting me down when I have things I need to tell you...a guy could get a complex, Oliver."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "You need to go."

Instead, Geoffrey dove in. "Falstaff is the one and only thing that saves Henry IV from being excruciatingly boring. No one cares about the politics, the battle scenes are weirdly uneven, and the women don't have enough lines to justify—" Oliver scowled, but Geoffrey was off, whipping feverishly through the script, pontificating on the transgressive charm of the old man leading young Hal astray, and contrasting Hal's idealized view of Hotspur--meaningless without a charismatic, even tantalizing Falstaff on the other side. Geoffrey's cheeks were flushed; his gestures were almost hypnotic. Oliver was certainly enrapt. Despite himself.

Then Geoffrey broke off, inexplicably, and leaned over the desk.

"Yes?" Oliver blinked, feeling dazed.

"Yes," Geoffrey answered firmly. "Yes, I think so," and kissed him. It started slow and ended not-slow at all.

"Geoff, you don't—" Oliver began weakly.

"I really, really do," Geoffrey said, rounding the desk and half-sitting on the notes at Oliver's elbow. "I just hadn't grasped how much things had changed."

Oliver swallowed, but for once he couldn't find anything to say.

"You aren't going to use me and toss me aside," Geoffrey continued, kissing him again.

Oliver blinked. "Of course not."

"Like you did with all those apprentices." The angle of Geoffrey's eyebrow spoke volumes.

It was a valid point, and yet. "You're my principal," Oliver said breathlessly. "I could never. I _would_ never, even if I weren't in love with you."

"Yeah," Geoffrey murmured against his mouth. "That's what I finally figured out. We can do this and it's okay." He kissed Oliver again, harder.

"Oh," Oliver said, and, "Yes." And he didn't demand to know how Geoffrey could imagine Oliver throwing him, of all people, away like a used tissue. Instead he asked, "How long until you're needed somewhere?"

Geoffrey laughed a little wildly. "Forty minutes and counting. How do you feel about putting out on the first date?"

Oliver snorted. "Exceedingly willing. Yes, I know you're surprised. Also, I'm fairly certain we've been dating for at least the past two and a half months, thanks to Ellen."

"Bless Ellen," Geoffrey said and slid to his knees.

"Indeed," Oliver murmured, and for once did his damnedest to believe.

**Author's Note:**

> Annnd [here's a tumblr link](http://sagesageness.tumblr.com/post/106753585472/obviously-were-terrible-at-this-4737-words-by), if that's your thing.


End file.
